


A Christmas Carol

by Hades_Lord_of_the_Dead



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 20:37:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18483913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hades_Lord_of_the_Dead/pseuds/Hades_Lord_of_the_Dead
Summary: A Holmesian take on 'A Christmas Carol'.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my FF.net account, an entry to the December Calendar Challenge I run over there.

"My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass grow under his feet."

_Sherlock Holmes_

_THE FINAL PROBLEM_

* * *

 

"Holmes…"

_I snuggled deeper under a shockingly thin blanket; I really had to remind Mrs Hudson to light more fires during the winter… or at least lend me a quilt. Was it she who was calling out my name?_

"Holmes…"

_Or Watson?_

_"_ Holmes…"

_But Watson's voice did not sound like this. Who could it be?_

"Holmes!"

I sat bolt upright and my blanket, which was in fact a ragged coat, slid off me onto the stone floor.

"You are keeping well I see."

I froze at the cold, amused sounding and frightfully familiar voice. Slowly I lifted my head toward it. When I saw the man who spoke I leapt to my feet. "Moriarty!"

The figure in front of me gave a humourless laugh; rattling the semi transparent chains which hung from his wrists and ankles. "You look less than pleased to see me, Mr Holmes."

I spluttered incomprehensibly for a few moments, before finally reaching a logical conclusion. "Of course – I am still dreaming."

"Sadly not," Moriarty sighed. "I am indeed Professor James Moriarty. And I have come with a message. May I sit down?"

"I had no idea that ghosts had need of chairs," I responded. Despite my outward nonchalance, I was more than a little shocked. "And I am sorry to say that I have none."

"No… This is not the most luxurious of places is it?" Moriarty cast his eyes around the bare room disdainfully before lowering himself to the floor. "I expect it is cold as well."

"It will be colder in England," I said with a shrug. My initial fear at seeing the spirit of my old arch-nemesis was now transformed into open curiosity. "Why do you wear those chains?"

"As punishment," Moriarty gave a bitter smile. "These chains are the weight of my sins; and I am forced to wander onward from place to place, dragging them behind me. It is not often I am permitted a rest and I am a little disappointed that you chose such a dismal shelter for yourself."

"I would apologise," I said icily. "But it is hardly my fault. In fact I would say that all blame can be placed squarely on your shoulders."

"On the contrary Holmes," Moriarty pierced me with his ghostly gaze. "It was not I who told you to abandon your friend at the falls."

"Abandon?"

"Or to embark on your frivolous travels across the continent."

"Frivolous?"

"It was also not I, who made you the decision to contact no one but your brother. Indeed, the blame of  _that_  decision, lies squarely on  _your_ shoulders," Moriarty smiled slightly at my outraged expression. "It is down to you, and you alone, that you spend your days in such lonely places as this. Which brings me to my message."

"Get on with it then!" I snarled. How dare he insinuate that this was my fault, any of it? "And then be off with you!"

Unperturbed, he continued; "Tonight you will be visited by three more ghosts. Those of Christmas Past, Present and Future."

"Christmas?" I exclaimed, anger forgotten.

Again, Moriarty smiled. "It has been a long time indeed Holmes, since I last saw you. There was a time when you let nothing, no tiny detail, slip past you. But tonight is Christmas Eve, and you, my friend are entirely alone. Perhaps fate is not as cruel as I had first thought; it seems we have both entered a different way of life. And both, with not a soul beside us."

I trembled with rage at his mocking words. I had before shied away from his spectral form, but now I approached him. "You are right Moriarty; your fate is not cruel. It is deserved! You will remain alone for the rest of eternity and rightly so. Now leave!"

Moriarty's expression remained unchanged. He rose to his feet, chains creaking cacophonously, and stared at me. "I will leave Holmes. But remember; if you do not think through your decisions, for they are  _your_ decisions, then you may find yourself left to the same fate which I now possess."

"You know  _nothing!_ " I spat. "Go!"

The sad smile did not leave Moriarty's face as he turned do so. "So long, Mr Holmes…." And with the unpleasant sound of chains being dragged across stone, he departed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Holmesian take on 'A Christmas Carol'.

"Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic."

_John Watson_

_THE SIGN OF FOUR_

* * *

 

I collapsed to the floor, visibly shaking and with a longing for something warmer than my coat, which lay discarded in a corner of the room. A blanket or quilt I might wrap myself in, to assist in casting an illusion of safety from spirits and ghosts.

Minutes passed and no such beings appeared. I began to wonder if the ghost of Moriarty had in fact been a figment of my imagination and after a few more minutes I was convinced of it. Berating myself for my foolish belief in what must have been a very vivid dream, I went to collect my coat. Laying it across myself, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

I awoke what must have been a short time later; the sky outside my window was still dark and in the neighbouring house I could hear the quiet chiming of a clock. To me at least, it sounded like an echo of Big Ben; of London. But I was not in London any more.

"It is nice to know I have been missed. There are many who would rather forget the past."

I gaped from my position on the floor. "M- Mrs Watson? But… what are you doing here?"

Watson's wife stared down at me. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, as I had never seen it before and her blue eyes shone, even in the darkness. The simple white gown which she wore also exuded a white glow – shining through the night. "My name is not Mary Watson. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. And you are Sherlock Holmes."

Slowly I got to my feet. "If you are not Mrs Watson, then why do you resemble her so closely?"

"I have taken a form you find familiar, so that I might show you the past." She extended a small, pale hand. I regarded it, almost apprehensively. "You have nothing to fear. That which we shall observe is but an echo of that which has already been and gone."

_An echo…_  Her choice of words regarding the past were so close to my thoughts of before. My thoughts of London.

But what she said was true. There was nothing to fear from the past. I hardened my resolve and took her hand in my own. "I am ready, Christmas Past."

And with a jerk of her fingers we were gone from the dingy house in Paris, instead soaring through a spectrum of different shades and colours. Black faded to blue faded to purple faded to pink faded to a lighter blue faded to white which faded back to the light blue. I could do nothing but stare, completely amazed, guided by the pull of the spirit's gentle grip.

All too soon the colours were gone, replaced instead by a dim corridor lined with portraits. I turned to face the Ghost of Christmas Past.

"Where are we? And…" I hesitated. " _When_ are we?"

"It is the 25th of December, 1861. And this is-"

Her quiet words were drowned out as a nearby door was flung open by - I could scarcely believe it –  _me._

"Leave me alone, Mycroft!" I watched my younger self march down the corridor, and with a jolt I recognised the door to what was once my bedroom.

"My old home…" I breathed and felt the spirit nod beside me.

"Sherlock!" this time it was my older, yet far younger, brother who spoke. "You are overreacting!"

I watched myself turn back to face Mycroft and was shocked to see tears in my young, grey eyes. "They  _promised_ Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed heavily and shifted his weight to the other foot. I had forgotten how thin he had once been. "I know. But they are busy Sherlock… And they have not forgotten us. They have given orders to all of the staff for a Christmas meal to be prepared, and they have left us our presents. They are just… busy."

"They're  _always_ busy…" I snorted at my whining. Had I really once sounded like that?

"Come back to my room," Mycroft suggested. Seeing my less than enthusiastic face he added, temptingly. "I still have to give you your present."

"All right. But it had better not be a chess set - you always cheat."

I watched as both myself and Mycroft headed back to his room, Mycroft chuckling. "I do  _not_ cheat Sherlock; I win."

I stared after them, a hollow feeling having just entered into my chest. "Our parents were not there that Christmas."

The spirit said nothing, just stared at me with Mary Watson's eyes.

"And in January I was informed of their deaths."

Again, nothing other than the force of her pale blue gaze.

"Mycroft knew, didn't he?"

Slowly… the ghost nodded. I took a sharp intake of breath.

"I never realised…"

"Come." There was no pity in her gaze. No expression at all. "It is time we left."

I took her hand, and was again pulled into a different place, this time one which I had no difficulty in recognising; the living room of 221B Baker Street.

It was clearly Christmas; tinsel lined the mantelpiece and there was even a small tree in the corner, dripping with decorations. "The year?" I enquired of the ghost.

"1888."

"And?" I asked. "You are the Ghost of my Christmas Past – where am  _I_  this Christmas?"

As way of response she put a finger to her lips and gestured to the door. I could hear two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.

I should perhaps have been used to strange occurrences by that point, but I could not contain my gasp of surprise when through the door came both Watson and a slightly younger me. The younger me was laughing. Watson was talking.

"-then of course they all stared and I realised I still had lipstick below my ear!" he exclaimed. I chuckled along with my younger self as I recalled the story he had related to me. "There was a terrible silence as I steadily grew redder; and then Mrs Forrester said, "Goodness Doctor Watson. If my doctor were as careful with his examinations as you I rather think I wouldn't mind being ill.""

"Ha ha ha!" I watched myself wipe tears, this time of joy, from my eyes and collapse onto the sofa, shaking with suppressed laughter. "Oh goodness… Altogether  _not_ the best first meeting then?"

"No," Watson replied, moustache twitching. "It was a  _most_ successful examination however. Though I never did get around to diagnosing Mary…"

"HA HA HA! Well just so long as you didn't mention that to Mrs Forrester I'm sure it was fine."

"Quite. Now then…."he strode to the tree and pulled out a present. "Merry Christmas Holmes."

"To you too." My former self accepted the present and gestured back to the tree, "Yours is there with the rest. Do you think Mrs Hudson would mind if-?"

_Knock, knock, knock!_

"That will be her now – you can ask her yourself." Watson raised his voice, "And perhaps also ask after the delicious Christmas dinner I can smell cooking downstairs! Come in Mrs Hudson!"

I looked on as our landlady entered, beaming, and carrying a silver platter which held what could only be described as a  _magnificent_ Christmas dinner. Smiles leapt to the faces of the other two in the room, and I could not help the one which sprang to mine in remembrance of the happy occasion.

"We must go."

"No I- I should like to stay." I was unwilling to tear myself away from this joyous memory.

"Time is short, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs Watson's face remained as expressionless as ever. "We cannot ponder too long on the past – time is short. We must move on."

I could not repress a shudder at the thought that perhaps the double meaning in her words was intentional. Once again she grasped my hand in hers and we were tugged forward in time.

This time no decorations adorned the living room of 221B. No tinsel, no tree…. In the corner of the room I saw myself, hunched over the chemistry table and muttering.

"You know what year it is."

I gave a start and turned to the ghost. Almost cautiously, I nodded. "1889."

She did not answer, as there came a knock upon the door.

"Come in!" I heard myself call imperiously, not looking up from my experiment.

It was a timid Mrs Hudson who entered; this time she carried no Christmas dinner. "Hello Mr Holmes."

"Mrs Hudson."

She watched nervously as I lit a Bunsen burner, face thoughtful and brooding. "Mr Holmes… I can still bring up something to eat…. If you'd like…"

"No thank you Mrs Hudson," my slightly younger self replied. My face was tight; the only emotion it betrayed was that of intense concentration, on the experiment at hand. "Is there anything else?"

Mrs Hudson hesitated. She teetered for a while, on the edge of saying something. Eventually she did speak, "Mr Holmes… you know that Doctor Watson would have been here… if he-"

"I perfectly understand Mrs Hudson," my reply was brusque; harshly so. "He is a married man; he has other demands on his time. Now if that is all..?"

"Yes Mr Holmes." She exited, leaving only the tinkling of vials and the ticking of the clock behind her. I winced at my far too recent actions; had I really treated her so badly?

Meanwhile the other me was continuing his experiment. He stopped only briefly to throw a scrap of paper – a telegram – on the fireplace. I could not see it from my current position, but I could remember well enough the words it held.

Holmes STOP Cannot make Christmas dinner STOP Mary fallen ill STOP Apologies for late notice STOP Will be sure to visit soon STOP Watson FINAL STOP

"Take me away," I turned and thrust my hand at the Ghost of Christmas Past. "I don't want to see any more." The ghost did not move. "I  _said_ take me away!"

The ghost continued to stare with pale blue eyes. With  _those_ pale blue eyes. The pale blue eyes of Mrs Mary Watson. All at once I was shaking with rage, just as with the ghost of Moriarty, and I started toward her angrily. " _SAY SOMETHING!_ "

She did not, and with a bellow of frustration I raised my arm and brought it crashing down, right across that unchanging face, and across those unchanging eyes. But just at the point I expected to feel the resistance of flesh against flesh – there was nothing. Only empty space. I leapt back with a cry of horror.

_"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes…"_ The last I heard from the Ghost of Christmas Past were those words, whispered with the voice of Watson's wife.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Holmesian take on 'A Christmas Carol'.

CHAPTER 3

"In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words."

_John Watson_

_THE EMPTY HOUSE_

* * *

 

I fell, trembling, to the floor; the floor, I now realised, of my Parisian safe house. I stared down at my arm, repulsed at what I had almost done.

But no… had my blow met its target, it would have struck against the cheek of a ghost, not a woman. And especially not  _that_ woman. I gulped down a few breaths, still shaking, before walking unsteadily to a window. I opened it, ignoring the blast of chilly air, and listened to the noises of the city.

"Sherlock Holmes!" I jumped at the voice which boomed from behind me. "Come, and know me better man!"

I swivelled around and felt my mouth fall open in shock. "I take it then…. That you are the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Indeed!" the ghost laughed and his enormous girth, covered with an enormous green robe, wobbled.

"And I also take it… that you have taken on my brother's appearance so that I might be familiar?"

"Quite so! I have many brothers – over 1800! – but I am afraid to say that you are not among them."

I smiled nervously back at the giant of a ghost, who looked down at me with Mycroft's grey eyes.

"Come," he said. "Touch my robe – I have not much time."

I did as the spirit asked and reached out my hands to the rich green material. As I did so the stone walls of my makeshift residence began to spin, and dissolve. The effect was almost nauseating. I closed my eyes against the movement, and when I next opened them I was shocked to find myself on a frosty London street.

"Why are we here?" I asked the ghost.

"Patience Sherlock. All will become clear soon enough." I looked away, a little unsettled at the use of my Christian name. this ghost already looked like Mycroft. I did not wish for it to take on any other of his mannerisms.

I saw two figures round the corner.

"Cor Wig, it ain't 'alf cold!" one of them said.

"I know Freddie," the other, who I now recognised as my lieutenant of dirty street-urchins Wiggins, replied. "Cud be worse."

"Yer… s'pose…" Frederic, another Irregular, mumbled. He was shivering in his threadbare jacket and I saw many holes in the cloth cap he wore, from which tufts of dirty blonde hair poked. "Maybe we cud go see Doctor Watson!"

At his friend's suggestion, Wiggins looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I dunno Fred… I reckon it's best we leave 'im to 'imself this Christmas. But look," he hastily added as he saw Frederic's face drop. "'Ow's about we go over to Trafalgar Square? I still got enough money to get some chestnuts for us both."

At this the boy's expression brightened and they both departed. I watched their retreating backs, puzzled.

"What did they mean?" I asked the ghost. "What reason does Watson have not to see them?"

"Grief is a strange thing Mr Holmes," the ghost said in Mycroft's slow and ponderous voice. "Particularly for those who are witness to it."

"Grief?" I repeated. "But… surely Watson is not still grieving for me?"

There was a long silence before the ghost answered my question. "When you have lost someone close to your heart, the hole which is left behind where they once were, never truly heals. Now," he gestured to his robe. "We must continue."

I took hold of his robe again, his words giving me more to think about than I would have liked to admit. The street in which we stood slowly dissolved, and I was now thrust into an entirely different scene.

I as in a large hall crammed full of people, all of whom looked a great deal warmer than Wiggins and Frederic had. IN the this crowd of dancing, talking people I could make out several familiar Inspectors. Some kind of formal Christmas-do then, organised by Scotland Yard.

"Inspector Lestrade!"

I realised, a little late, that there was one inspector I had not spotted. I saw him now, standing at the edge of dancing couples beside a woman who was most likely his wife. He muttered something in her ear, before making his way through the throng of people, toward the man who had called him and who, as luck would have it, stood right beside me.

"Good evening, Chief Superintendent," Lestrade greeted him respectfully. His eyes were weary. "Are you having a good time?"

"It would be better," the Superintendent growled. "If I knew that the culprit behind the Molesey Mystery was safely behind bars."

"I- I am working on it sir," Lestrade stammered.

"Working on it!" the Superintendent exclaimed. "Of course you're  _working_ on it! I don't want it  _worked on;_ I want it solved!"

"Y- yes sir," Lestrade was looking steadfastly at the floor. "I am… sure I will hit on something soon."

The Chief Superintended sighed. "That's the best I can hope for I suppose, now you don't have your pet detective to help you."

Lestrade stiffened at this. The Superintendent either didn't notice or didn't care, and left.

"Was that the Superintendent?" Lestrade's wife had caught up with him. "What did he want?"

Lestrade released a shaky breath before answering, "To tell me that he doesn't think I can handle the Molesey case."

His wife looked at him pityingly. "I'm sure he's just-"

"He's dead right," Lestrade cut across her. "I cannot solve this case. I cannot solve anything…. I never could. I need Holmes."

His wife frowned. "What you need is to go home and rest. That will help you gain a new perspective on the case."

Lestrade sighed but did not argue, allowing himself to be led away by his wife, who glanced worriedly back at him.

I could hardly believe what I had just seen. Never before had Lestrade seemed so… demoralised, And most certainly never about a case. He was far too tenacious for that, even if his determination was often misplaced. But now… I shook my head sadly. He seemed to posses barely a trace of his old obstinance.

"Will he solve the case?" I asked the Ghost of Christmas Present, who shrugged.

"That is not my place to know. Shall we continue?"

I nodded and grasped at his robe, closing my eyes against the disorientating journey with which I was growing familiar.

When I next opened them I was a little surprised to find myself in Watson's study. I was further surprised to see Watson there, slumped over his desk and snoring, There was a pen in his hand, a pile of prescriptions beneath his cheek and his pocket-watch was open beside them, telling me that it was fast approaching midnight.

"Why the devil is he working on Christmas?"

There was a pause as the ghost considered this. Eventually, he said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow."

"Sorrow is one thing, but Watson would not spend Christmas alone. Where is his wife?"

"Have you not deduced it yet?"

"What do you..?" my sentence trailed away. I had just noticed something. Watson's study was a mess.

Watson was a military man; impeccable clean and neat. And if, for whatever reason he was not so, whether due to stress or grief, his wife most certainly would have kept his study tidy, and would most certainly have been with him on Christmas night. That she was not suggested she was ill, or otherwise incapacitated. But if that were the case Watson would not be here, he would be at her side. Which meant that Watson's sorrow was not for me.

It was for his wife.

I pivoted on my heel to face the Ghost of Christmas Past.

"Why?" I cried. "How?"

The ghost, however, seemd incapable of answering. He looked at the pocketwatch open by Watson's face and somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike twelve. He gave a smile, which grew wider and wider, ending at last with him tossing back his head and laughing. An icy feeling spread through my stomach as his laugh spread through the room, for this was not Mycroft's amused chuckle but something else entirely.

I covered my ears but it did nothing to help; his laughter rand on, through my ears, through my  _skull –_ through my very mind. I shut my eyes attempting to block it out, but to no avail.

Then suddenly… it stopped. I opened my eyes. I was no longer in Watson's study, but back on the stone floor – in Paris. I shivered.

After that hellish laughter of before, I found the quiet night almost deafening. But it was not entirely silent.

Next door, a clock chimed midnight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Holmesian take on 'A Christmas Carol'.

"You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."

_Sherlock Holmes_

_THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP_

* * *

 

I did not have long to wait for the next ghost to appear. I heard the footsteps ringing out, sharp and clear, against the stone floor and found myself looking into another familiar face. Watson's face.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"

Slowly, the ghost nodded. It did look remarkably like Watson. All except the eyes. Although they might be the exact same shape and shade as his, they held no emtion. This lack of emotion unnerved me; I was used to reading Watson's expressions like a book.

"You are to show me shadows, not of things that have happened, but which are still to happen? Is that correct?"

Again the ghost gave a careful nod. Although I did not like to admit it, his ghost frightened me than all of the others put together, I took a deep breath. "Then lead on, Spirit."

It grasped my arm in a strong, cold grip and all at once we were back in London. I caught sight of two constables standing on a street corner, shivering in the early morning air.

"-seems a bit harsh… I mean it's just a bit of pick pocketing innit?" one of them said.

The other shrug. "Yeah, well…. Weren't down to me was it? I just saw him nick it… and I don't reckon it were his first time neither."

The first constable sighed. "Yeah… s'pose so…." He rubbed his hands together. "Whatcha you say his name was?"

"I dunno… his friend kept calling him Wig or something..?" the second constable seemed eager to change the subject. "So what are you up to later?"

"Oh you know same old same old…. Missus making the Christmas diner and all that. You?"

Their conversation faded away as I turned back to face the Ghost of Christmas Future. "Wiggins… in prison?" The ghost was silent. "But he is no criminal! Why hasn't someone spoken up for him?"

Still the ghost said nothing. It made no move but to reach out a hand, which I took with trembling fingers, wondering what it would show me next.

"Lestrade!" I watched Gregson run past. "Lestrade!"

It was the same street, but later in the day. Lestrade turned back to face his fellow inspector, who came to a sudden halt. "Yes?"

"Have- have you heard?" Gregson gasped out between heavy breaths.

Lestrade looked puzzled. "Heard what?"

"He's dead."

Lestrade's eyes widened momentarily in shock. "… How?"

"Overdose." The two shared a dark look.

"Terrible thing," Lestrade sighed. "And a terrible shame… Still, at least he's at peace now."

Gregson nodded and fell into step beside Lestrade. I felt the cold hand on my shoulder and found myself instantly in another place.

I was in a graveyard. I turned angrily to the ghost.

"Why have you brought me here?" I demanded. "I know it was I who they spoke of; who do I know who would die from an overdose?"

The ghost remained silent. Slowly it lifted a hand… and pointed to a gravestone. I did not look at it,.

"I need not see my name carved in stone, to know that I die, Spirit!" The hand did not waver. "Why are you showing me this?"

The ghost remained unnaturally still. Clearly Watson's old injuries did nothing to bother this phantom. It would stand there until the end of time if it had to. With a sigh I looked to where the finger pointed – and gasped.

_Doctor John H. Watson_

_1852 – 1896_

_May he rest in peace_

"It- it cannot be! Tell me spirit – are these the shadows of the thing that  _will_ be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?"

I swivelled around, away from the stone, desperate for an answer. But there was no one there.

"Spirit!" I cried. "Christmas Future!"

Once again, no answer was forthcoming and I dropped to my knees – at the base of another, different gravestone. I looked around in shock, and found that I was in an entirely different churchyard. And judging from the numerous French names which were scattered across the headstones, I was no longer in London.

I stood up but stumbled a little, and was forced to lean against the gravestone I had knelt at before. Looking down, I was not altogether shocked at what I saw.

_Emile Sigerson_

_Unkown – 1895_

_R.I.P_

"This…  _cannot_ be!" I repeated my early words. "I care little for myself Spirit, but Wiggins… Watson… surely they can be saved? Is it too late?" I was shouting desperately at the wind; I only hoped that it was listening. "I can return! I  _will_ return! Tomorrow if need be, if I can just… help them."

On these last words my voice broke and I fell once more before my own grave. I do not know what I was doing. A desperation had crept into my heart and a feeling of uttermost impotence. I could do nothing but hope. Hope and pray.

I closed my eyes…And felt a cold hand on my shoulder.

I was no longer kneeling on grass and soil, but stone. I opened my eyes. Early morning sunlight was shining through the still-open window.

"Thank you… "I whispered and went to look outside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Holmesian take on 'A Christmas Carol'.

 

 

 

"Education never ends Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for last."

_Sherlock Holmes_

_THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE_

* * *

 

"What's today?" I cried from my window to a passing boy. I had no idea of how much time I had passed among the Ghosts.

"Eh?" he replied.

"What day is it today?"

"Je ne parle pas l'anglais monsieur."

Ah. Yes. I was still in France.

"Never mind!" I yelled. I withdrew from the window, to the confusion of the boy, and hurried out of the door, pulling on my coat as I did so.

I imagine I gave the man in the telegram office something of a fright when I burst in, red-faced and practically skipping for joy.

"Monsieur Sigerson?" he enquired tentatively.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Er… yes. I have a telegram for you."

SIGERSON STOP RONALD ADAIR DEAD STOP CIRCUMSTANCES SUSPICIOUS STOP SUGGEST IMMEDIATE RETURN STOP MH FINAL STOP

I read Mycroft's missive and grinned, before sending one back.

MH STOP AM COMING HOME STOP SH FINAL STOP


End file.
